


Wolfsbane

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, Werewolf Jaskier | Dandelion, poor jaskier has not been having a fun time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28989309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo prompt 4: Rough.Beneath the light of the full moon, Jaskier hovers on the edge of transformation. Geralt finds a way to distract him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079273
Comments: 6
Kudos: 139
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	Wolfsbane

Jaskier glares up at the moon shining — taunting — bright overhead. He used to be endlessly enthralled by it, watching its graceful arc over the night sky, studying its shadows and craters, pondering over its secrets. Now though, it has become his most fearsome adversary.

It's been six long months since Geralt took that befouled contract: werewolves tearing their way through an isolated village in the hills, each one slain quickly replaced by another, until Geralt had found the witch responsible and seen her to a deserved end. But not before she'd set her sights on Jaskier.

Six months of dreading each coming full moon.

Six months of trawling the Continent seeking out some healer or another to try and lift the curse.

Six months of performing absurd rituals and draining concoctions that make Jaskier sick and do nothing to keep the transformation at bay.

Jaskier can feel Geralt's eyes on him as he paces back and forth beneath the too-bright moonlight. His fingers clench and release at his sides, and he sits down; gets back up and resumes his restless pacing. It's the only thing he has the presence of mind to do, yet it's not nearly enough to distract from the awful sensation that his body's trying to turn itself inside out.

"How do you feel?" Geralt says. He's sat across from where Jaskier is flattening a stretch of grass into the dirt, the heavy silver shackles with which Jaskier has grown intimately familiar piled ominously beside him. This is the first full moon that Jaskier has been released from them, though he can hardly say he feels any better for it.

 _What a stupid fucking question_ , Jaskier wants to say, his temper frayed to the point of snapping. He bites his tongue. Geralt already blames himself for this — he doesn't say it, but Jaskier can see it in the set of his shoulders, the furrow taking up permanent residence on his brow, the melancholy curve of his lips — and Jaskier would sooner die than add to his pain. He doesn't deserve any of this.

He never even wanted Jaskier to follow him.

Jaskier stops his pacing and closes his eyes. Around him the wind picks up, rustling through the grass, cold as it slices through the thin fabric of the sleep shirt Jaskier has thrown on for some semblance of modesty. With Geralt taking fewer contracts, his focus solely on seeing Jaskier through this, and performing the farthest thing from Jaskier's mind these last few months, they barely have two coins to rub together. Jaskier can't afford to keep destroying his clothes when he transforms. He tries to let that thought alone keep him warm.

"I don't think you're about to change," says Geralt.

"No," Jaskier agrees. He would have done so hours ago if the potion had had no effect. But that doesn't mean it won't wear off. As it is Jaskier feels as if he's barely being held back, as if he's hovering in that awful moment before the transformation begins, the monster inside him trying to claw its way out. He forces himself to still; takes a seat on the crumbling remains of a boulder. It's icy cold on the backs of his bare thighs, but it gives Jaskier something to focus on besides the churning in his gut, so he can't complain. "So what happens next?"

"We see if it lasts until morning."

Jaskier nods. His jaw clenches so tight he fears his teeth might crack, and he rakes his nails across the stone beneath him. The sharp scent of blood curls at the edge of his senses.

"Are you in pain?" There's something strained in Geralt's voice, and Jaskier feels a fresh stab of guilt for putting him through this.

He shakes his head. "Not pain," he says, his eyes still closed. "I just need—"

"What?"

"I don't know."

He needs to get up and start walking, needs to find someone to fight or to fuck; anything to cool his blood. Briefly he wonders if this is how Geralt feels after a hunt; his senses too sharp, agitation building in him without an outlet for it. The urge to just do _something_ grows with each passing minute Jaskier's transformation is held at bay. Jaskier isn't good at sitting still when he's not fighting against the beast wanting to tear through his skin; now, it's torture.

"Will it always feel like this?" Jaskier says. He winces at the desperation in his own voice.

"It could be that the potion needs adjusting. Or it might ease with time."

The silence hangs heavy for a moment.

"Or it might not," says Jaskier.

"Or it might not," echoes Geralt. His hands twitch uselessly, like they're itching to reach for his swords and fight their way through the problem. He looks back up at Jaskier, his gaze intense and resolute. "We'll keep trying, Jaskier."

"I know you will."

Jaskier gets back up to his feet and begins to pace once more. He wonders how far from their camp he can stray before Geralt will stop him; wonders if he might, just maybe, be able to outrun Geralt if he tried. But it wouldn't do him much good — they're miles from the nearest settlement, nothing but lifeless moors stretching endlessly in all directions. It was a deliberate decision on Geralt's part, Jaskier's sure; keeping him far from civilisation in case he turns. Part of him is afraid to know what he might have done in months past to necessitate it. He's asked before, only to be met with stubborn silence.

Though he's not sure how the truth Geralt insists on keeping from him can be any worse than the things he's imagining.

There's a noise, sharp and sudden, and Jaskier jolts, his fingers curling as if he has claws to protect himself. Before he can find the source of it, Geralt's there, stepping into Jaskier's space, his voice soothing when he speaks.

"It's all right," he says. He smoothes a hand up and down Jaskier's spine as he pulls him closer. "It's just Roach."

Jaskier huffs out a breath. He knows that — he knows every sound that Geralt and Roach could possibly make by now — but it's like Jaskier's thoughts are getting buried too deep for him to reach. By the time he's managed to grasp onto one his body has already jumped into action. He drops his head against Geralt's shoulder and tries to focus on his soft, calming touch. It's nice.

"Is that what you need?" Geralt says, his voice low. It rumbles through Jaskier's body and, distantly, he hears himself moan in response.

It's a moment before he realises why, realises what prompted Geralt's words.

Jaskier's cock is hard — it could have been for a while now, for all Jaskier knows — and his hips are shifting of their own accord, rubbing against Geralt the way Jaskier won't let himself imagine outside of his most private fantasies.

"Fuck," he says, pushing himself back out of Geralt's embrace. "Shit. Sorry, I—"

"It's all right." Geralt's voice is still maddeningly calm, as if all of this is normal. "You don't have to stop."

Jaskier closes his eyes, shakes his head. He wants to reach a hand down and give his cock a warning squeeze but he knows he'll not be able to pull it away again. Maybe Geralt will let Jaskier wander to a safe distance and get himself off. If it helps with the restlessness clawing at Jaskier's insides surely Geralt would agree to it. It's not like Jaskier can ever stray out of Geralt's earshot, anyway.

"You can't say those things," he breathes. He doesn't have the wherewithal to keep it from sounding like a whine.

"Why?"

"Because you know how much I want it."

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and he's close again, his scent so much stronger when Jaskier's like this. His eyes are fixed on Jaskier's. There's something in them that Jaskier can't begin to fathom. "I want you to."

Jaskier's resolve — limited at the best of times as it is — crumbles. He sinks into Geralt's arms. It's hardly comfortable, fucking his cock against the rough cotton of his shirt and Geralt's leather trousers, but the concern is so distant Jaskier's barely aware of it. Geralt's hands are back on him, sinking lower this time to guide his hips as he pushes his own to meet Jaskier's, and as his breath gusts hot across Jaskier's shoulder he realises somewhere in the back of his mind that Geralt's hard as well.

" _Fuck_ ," gasps Jaskier.

They drop to the ground. Jaskier's still rutting against Geralt even as he feels Geralt's hand slip between them to yank at the buttons of his trousers, pulling his cock free before clutching at Jaskier's shirt to tug it up over his head. The moment Jaskier's out of it he's scrabbling for Geralt's clothes in return.

Vaguely, Jaskier thinks he should savour this; commit Geralt's every grunt and desperate moan of Jaskier's name to memory; let his hands roam everywhere in case they're never allowed to again. He's too cut off from his rational mind to do so, though, and it's a frantic blur of ache and need before Jaskier's body seizes and he spills against Geralt's chest with a shout. Geralt's nails pierce his skin as they rake over the small of his back, and after a moment he sighs and tenses beneath Jaskier.

Geralt doesn't stop thrusting, though. Neither does Jaskier.

Still hard — and, _fuck_ , how is Jaskier still hard? — they grapple with one another, gasping as they writhe together, more like animals in heat than anything close to human. In this moment, Jaskier supposes, neither one of them truly is. His forehead pressed to Geralt's damp chest, he scrapes his teeth against the skin, drifting lower to close his lips tight around a dusty pink nipple. Beneath him Geralt lets out a shuddering, ruined moan that Jaskier feels all the way to his cock.

Before he can bite down again, though, Geralt's pushing him away with rough hands on his hips. "Wait," he says, his voice even more gravelly than usual.

Jaskier can't. He needs this, needs more, and his hips are still working as Geralt holds him back. There's the sound of a choked sob in the air that he realises belatedly is his own as he forces himself to still, to breathe.

Geralt shifts back enough to fumble through their packs, his cock flushed and curving up towards his stained torso. Jaskier's fingers tangle in the grass just for something to grasp onto as he watches Geralt pull out a jar and spread his thighs. He pushes two wet fingers into himself and Jaskier can't breathe, can't do anything but stare, his body burning with its need to be pressed to Geralt again, to sink inside him and take everything he has to offer.

After a moment Geralt removes his fingers and is sitting up, a hand on the back of Jaskier's head to pull him in for a frantic kiss. Jaskier moans against Geralt's tongue. He bites at his lower lip, hands tugging at Geralt's hair, his heart thundering painfully against his ribs as Geralt closes a hand around Jaskier's cock and strokes.

Fuck, Jaskier's going to die. This is going to kill him long before the sun rises.

"Geralt," he gasps, "I need—"

Geralt's teeth scrape along his jawbone. "Do it."

He pulls away again, this time turning to settle on his hands and knees before Jaskier, legs spread invitingly, and Jaskier doesn't hesitate. They both groan when he pushes inside. Jaskier should slow down, ease them both into it, he knows. But he can't. He clutches at Geralt's hips and fucks him in quick, shallow thrusts, their sounds of pleasure growing wild and loud across the moor.

Geralt's hand scrabbles to grasp Jaskier's thigh, holding him in place as he pushes his hips back, fucking himself on Jaskier's cock, and Jaskier would have lost himself at that if he wasn't so far beyond conscious thought. He presses deeper, drapes himself over Geralt's arching back and sinks his teeth into the meat of Geralt's shoulder as his hips snap wildly, and beneath him Geralt shakes as he tugs at his own cock. The sound he makes when he clenches tight — so fucking tight — around Jaskier's cock and pulses with his climax is obscene. Jaskier barely lasts a minute before he follows, his teeth buried in Geralt's skin muffling the sound.

Whether he's finally sated or he's just too exhausted to seek out more, Jaskier pulls out, gasping, and slumps against the solid, comforting mass of Geralt's body as he tries to catch his breath. Distantly, he's aware of callused fingers brushing his sweat soaked fringe out of his eyes.

Jaskier must have drifted off at some point, for the next thing he's aware of is the warmth of sunshine on his back, and the soft orange glow of daylight through his closed eyelids. There's a hand in his hair, and a firm, broad chest beneath his own.

"You didn't change," says Geralt, by way of greeting.

Jaskier feels almost as exhausted as if he had, though — but his stomach has settled, the agitation that kicked in the moment the sun dipped beyond the horizon a distant, awful memory in the morning hush. It's like he's been made lighter in its absence. He doesn't bother to open his eyes just yet, content to remain in place draped over Geralt until Geralt decides to dislodge him.

"That's good," he murmurs.

"How do you feel?"

"Right as rain." Finally he moves to push himself up and stretch out his aching limbs, and that's when he feels — _ah_. Jaskier peers down at the sticky mess still smeared between them. "I suppose you and I should discuss this."

Geralt lifts Jaskier off of him with a gentle touch and climbs to his feet. There are bite marks on his shoulder and scratches and bruises at his hips, already fading but still, for the moment, all too visible. "Don't see a reason to."

"That's because you never see a reason to talk about anything."

But as Jaskier watches Geralt his demeanour isn't the sullen brooding Jaskier would have expected. He cleans himself up and gets dressed, before crossing the camp to see to Roach, and if Jaskier didn't know better he'd almost think Geralt was in a good mood.

"I thought you'd be more…" says Jaskier, and trails off.

Geralt glances back at him. "What?"

"Glower-y."

"I see you're back to your usual poetic self."

"And you're worryingly unbothered that you and your dearest friend spent the night—" He waves his hand vaguely, as if that might summarise things. "—well, you know."

Geralt arches an eyebrow. "You're not usually so prudish when it comes to sex," he remarks.

"It isn't just sex," says Jaskier as he gazes up at Geralt in absolute bewilderment. Perhaps he hasn't yet truly awoken, and this strange version of Geralt is simply a concoction of his curse-addled mind. That must be it. He'll be sure to wake soon, to be roughly shoved away by the sulking, distant Geralt he knows and loves. "It's… us."

Geralt just stares back at him.

"Oh, all right, then — if it's so inconsequential, why have we never done this before?"

"You never asked," he shrugs.

Jaskier blinks at him for a long, mystifying moment. Eventually Geralt takes pity on him.

"I could tell you wanted me, at first," he explains, coming back to crouch before Jaskier and tossing his abandoned sleep shirt into his lap. "But I knew it would fade away before long, once the curiosity wore off. It's why I never pursued you, either."

There's a lot to take in there, the revelation that Geralt was not only aware of Jaskier's less-than platonic desires towards him but just might have returned them once, and Jaskier carefully turns over the words in his mind as he tugs his shirt back over his head. He feels rather more exposed than he's comfortable with, suddenly.

"It didn't," he says in the end. "Fade. I suppose I just got better at hiding it."

Geralt hums at that — one of his thoughtful hums; perhaps something of surprise in the sound as well. Perhaps he's simply shocked that Jaskier was able to keep anything from him. Over the years, even Jaskier has found it hard to believe Geralt couldn't see through him, his aching want surely plain as day every time he looked at Geralt.

"So if I asked," says Jaskier. "You'd say yes?"

Geralt meets Jaskier's eyes again. "Once we've found you a working cure," he says, "you can ask me and find out."


End file.
